e such decided steps as those
indicated by her son. If the attempt was made, and proved to be a
failure, Mr. Checkynshaw would never forgive her, and might injure her
in revenge. When she came down stairs, she had decided to call upon the
banker, and state the case to him. If he chose to satisfy her that
Marguerite was still living, it would save trouble and future
disappointment.

"You can see him if you like, mother. I have no doubt he will smooth
you over. Checkynshaw is a plausible man--Checkynshaw is. He carries
too many guns for a woman. I would call myself if it were not for
letting myself down to his level," said Mr. Wittleworth, stroking his
chin, when his mother was ready to go.

"Don't be so silly, Fitz!"

"Checkynshaw won't stand trial, in my opinion. He is shrewd--he is."

"I only intend to ask him what he means to do," added Mrs. Wittleworth.

"He means to hold on to the property--that's what he means to do,
mother. He may try to buy you off--don't do it, on any account. Leave
this matter all to me. Me and Choate will fix it right. Now, be careful
what you do."

"I will not do anything," said his mother, as she put on her bonnet.

"I will see Choate to-day. Me and Choate will touch off a volcano under
Checkynshaw's feet in the course of a week or two," he added, as his
mother left the house.

CHAPTER XIV.

MR. CHECKYNSHAW IS LIBERAL.

Mrs. Wittleworth went directly to the door of the private office. She
had her doubts in regard to the interview which was to take place. Mr.
Checkynshaw had never treated her very handsomely. She had called upon
him only once since the downfall of her husband. The banker had
listened very coldly to her story of hardship and suffering. He had
taken Fitz into his employ at that time; but her reception was so cold,
and the great man's manner so forbidding, that she had resolved that
nothing but imminent starvation should induce her to repeat the visit.

Mr. Checkynshaw was a hard, selfish, money-getting man. He was not one
whom a poor relative would willingly approach with a tale of suffering.
Though this was not Mrs. Wittleworth's present errand, she dreaded the
result almost as much as though she had been an applicant for charity.
The banker was overbearing and haughty in his way. He bullied his
social inferiors, and looked upon them from a height which was
appalling to them. She opened the door and entered. The banker was
alone, sitting in the stuffed ar